


The Blood-Junkie And His Sourwolf

by orphan_account



Series: Your Blood Is My Drug...No, Literally. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Broken Stiles Stilinski, Derek Has Issues, F/M, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt Stiles, Hyper-Polyglot Stiles, I'm Serious, Lost Love, M/M, Men Crying, Pack Dad Derek Hale, Pack Family, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Protective Derek, Puppy Isaac, Puppy Piles, Puppy Scott, Self-Esteem Issues, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Stiles Feels, Stiles Has Issues, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Is Pretty Messed Up, Stiles Stilinski Has Low Self-Esteem, Stiles Stilinski Speaks Polish, Stiles Used To Be Married, Stillbirth, Suicide, Upiors, Vampire Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Szczepan Stilinski was born in the year 1009 A.D. </p><p>He was seventeen years old, when he committed suicide by throwing himself off a cliff, in the year 1026 A.D.</p><p>He woke up three days later. </p><p>He woke up as a monster. </p><p>(A.K.A Stiles is a thousand-year-old Polish Vampire called an Upior, with a bad habit of throwing himself off cliffs and with enough self-worth issues to fill an ocean. </p><p>He somehow befriends a werewolf puppy, falls in love with a Sourwolf, and ends up in a pack full of fail-wolves, a hot banshee and a badass hunter chick. </p><p>Yay for Stiles and his bad life choices.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Puked On My Shoes And Pissed Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! Upiors are actually a thing, so if you wanna read about them, hear ya go. :)
> 
> http://touchofstrange-rp.tumblr.com/post/115774138981/name-upior-also-known-as-upier-opier-origin

**_"Coming straight out of Polish folklore is the Upior...a vampire distinguished by its fierce blood lust. And we mean fierce. In some lore, they're said to sleep and bathe in the blood of their victims. Aside from their bloodlust, the most notable feature of the Upior is their long, barbed tongue, which they use to spear the flesh of their victims and lap up their blood."_ -A Touch of Strange**

 

Szczepan Stilinski was born in the year 1009 A.D.

He was seventeen years old, when he committed suicide by throwing himself off a cliff in the year 1026 A.D.

He woke up three days later.

It was ironic, really. He'd committed suicide after his wife had died while giving birth to their stillborn child. He was the reason for that child existing. He was the reason for her death. For both their deaths. Seeing nothing but a monstrous creature inside of his own heart, he'd tried to end his own life to be with them again. Only to wake up inside of his own coffin, drenched in the blood of his slaughtered mother and father. Sharp twisted fangs where his human teeth had once been. Eyes as red as the blood that dripped from his once broken body. His long, black, barbed tongue protruding through his lips. Skin as gray as the corpse he still was. Slowly at first, then all at once...the Upior began to scream.

Monstrosity, you see, is relative.

 

- **X** -

 

The small family was buried at the foot of a nearby hill.

His wife, Darija was buried while still in her blood-stained dress from the delivery of their stillborn son, Janek. The infant had no name at his birth, so no name marked the tiny dark stone that lay above the minuscule corpse, but had he lived...they would've called him Janek. As it was, Darija's headstone was not much bigger than their lost baby's. It held only her name. For back then, the years were not counted as they are now, but simply felt by the passing of seasons. Szczepan's headstone lay beside his wife's, the marker of their first and only child's resting place held between them, like a whisper. He left what would become Poland soon after his reawakening as an Upior, and didn't visit the graves again. Not even his parents, laying together in a plot on the other side of the village. A few centuries later, he looked the coordinates up on Google Maps, only to find that the three little graves had been covered up by the parking-lot of a strip mall. Yes, a strip mall. The Upior slowly exited his search screen and walked out of the small town library he'd researched it in. Before promptly puking in a gutter nearby.

He never stayed in one place for too long, maybe a year or two.

His thirst was too strong for that. Vampires weren't exactly pillars of self-control, but Upiors were particularly bad at it. There was no drinking _'a little_ ' for an Upior. The moment a drop of blood touched their lips, they would drain the owner dry without a second thought. They needed at least five liters of blood a week to survive. And could only sleep when drenched in blood. So yeah. That was kind of a problem. It was why he tended to avoid human relations and humans entirely...when he wasn't feeding, of course.

But he always made a point to follow the Stilinski family line. His Uncle's sons had sons and then they had sons and then...well you get the picture. Anyway, the Stilinski name lived on. That was how the Upior found himself in a tiny California town called 'Beacon Hills', where a great-great-great-great cousin of his had just become Sheriff. Usually he would just lurk around in the shadows for a few weeks, make sure his descendent was doing okay, feed a few times, and then he would be off. But for some reason, this time...he stayed.

It wasn't just because Sheriff John Stilinski was struggling, mind you. For despite having lost his wife and eleven year old daughter several years prior, he was still doing a rather poor job of keeping his head above water. No. It wasn't just because he was the last of the Stilinski family line. Or because the tragedies surrounding him were so similar to the Upior's own. It was all that...and the wolves. There hadn't been normal wolves in California for at least five decades. Those weren't the wolves that had Szczepan worried for John's safety. It was the werewolf scent that clung to the town like a curtain of musk.

It made the Upior's skin crawl.

So he broke his own cardinal rule. He made contact with the descendent he was trying to protect. But in his defense, John had puked up stale whiskey on his scuffed shoes. So Szczepan was kind of obligated to do something about it.

He'd been lurking in the shadows like usual, when he saw the stumbling silhouette of a man, holding a sloshing half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. The street was dark and empty except for the both of them. On an ordinary night, said stumbling man would've been the Upior's next meal. But Szczepan had just eaten the night before, so instead of being appetizing, the drunk man was just annoying. Until he saw the man's face. Then he was both annoyed and concerned, and he hated it. Sheriff John Stilinski looked three sheets to the wind and greener than the grass below his boots. Which wasn't aided by the fact that he kept taking swigs from the bottle clutched in his fist. The Upior just growled deep in his throat and marched out of his cover of shadows to rest his hand on the Sheriff's shoulder and turn the older man around roughly.

Only for the man in question to hurl.

All over the Upior's shoes.

Great. Just fucking fantastic.

But Szczepan didn't have time to mourn over the scuffed converse shoes that had survived a whole five years of travel in Europe, instead he quickly wrapped an arm around the Sheriff's waist to make sure the man didn't collapse in his own sick. Because unfortunately, he knew first hand just how disgusting that was. The creature of the night was grumbling to himself as he heaved the man upwards with a strength he shouldn't have had, and set him on his feet once more. Before swiftly taking the older man by the elbow and dragging him towards where he knew the Stilinski residence to be. John didn't argue. In fact, he was barely conscious.

The Upior had been in such a situation too many times to count. But this time it was different, this time it was his own descendent and there was no bloodlust alight in his eyes. Still, the feeling of hot breath near his ear...of a pulse beating beneath his hand. Those were too familiar. They made him think of other things, of other years and other places.

The first time after his parents, he drained a farmer and his wife. They screamed and struggled, but he didn't care. His mouth full of dagger-like teeth made short work of ripping them apart. Blood spurted everywhere. He saw red and he relished in it. Control? Ha. It wasn't even a word in his vocabulary. All he knew was the burn. All he knew was the hunger. And how to sate it. In the coming years, there was a banker walking home late at night. A prostitute crying in an alley. A rapist who was stalking a teenage girl. A little boy in the wrong place at the wrong time. A socialite too drunk to stand. He ripped them apart. Drank them dry without a second's hesitation. It was only later that he felt the sick pull in the pit of his belly. **_Murderer. Murderer. Murderer._**  He had hoped that after so many kills, it would eventually get easier. But it never did.

Szczepan sighed as he practically carried his descendent inside the man's own house. A house that smelled strongly of booze and empty takeout cartons. Wonderful. It was a veritable wonderland of stale whiskey and man-tears. How did this man make Sheriff again? When he looked like he couldn't get through one night without drinking himself into a stupor? Said Sheriff moaned in the Upior's arms and shifted slightly so his face was pressed uncomfortably into the teenager's shoulder.

"Hey Sheriff, you waking up buddy?"

The only response to the Upior's question was a sharp smell that made him wrinkle his nose. And it only took one look at the damp stain on the man's crotch to see where the smell had come from.

"And you just pissed yourself, fantastic. Come on, Johnny Boy, we're making a bathroom detour."

Szczepan basically dragged the older man into the bathroom and gently sat him on the toilet seat. As he leaned over to turn on the bathwater, he grimaced. He really wasn't looking forward to getting all up and personal with this dude's junk. But if he didn't help him...who would? Stupid self-righteous guiltiness. With deft hands, the Upior had the man's pants unbuttoned and quickly shimmied them off and tossed them to the floor, all within mere moments. It only took a few more to have the shirt and badge off as well. Then with gentle hands, he was lowering the barely consciousness man into the lukewarm bath water. Waiting until the guy's private parts were submerged, before removing his boxers.

Then he popped open a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner bottle, lathered up his hands and began to scrub the Sheriff's scalp. The physically older man sighed in something akin to contentment and leaned into the dull warmth that Szczepan provided. It took all the strength the Upior had not to burst out laughing at the scene they portrayed. Clearly, had the Sheriff been in his right mind, he wouldn't have taken so kindly to a strange guy shampooing his hair... especially when said Sheriff was in the nude. Let alone be virtually cuddling with him inside the bathtub.

Luckily, the bath was nearly over and Szczepan stood up again to find some clothes for the Sheriff to put on. He couldn't exactly go to bed starkers. He might catch a chill. In the end, the creature of the night dug up a hoodie and a pair of gray sweatpants. Grabbing the first pair of boxers he saw as well. He could have a mental breakdown later about the fact that a supposedly terrifying creature of children's nightmares was worried about a human guy catching a chill. Unfortunately, after lifting his charge out of the bathtub, Szczepan discovered that dressing a practically comatose person was easier said than done.

After several failed attempts at putting on the hoodie, arms ending up in the same hole and whatnot, Szczepan decided to forgo the hoodie and that if John got chilled it was his own fucking fault for drinking himself sick. And so what if Szczepan would come into his room every few hours with a new blanket? It wasn't like he cared or anything.

Once John was safely tucked into his bed, asleep or perhaps just unconscious, the Upior crept downstairs to get a glass of water and put it on the older man's bedside. For the head-splitting hangover he would most likely wake up with. And if the Sheriff's entire liquor supply ended up in the trash can under unexplained circumstances...well, sometimes miracles happen.

 

- **X** -

 

John Stilinski woke up with a supernova in his head.

He just groaned and pressed his head farther into the soft thing he was lying on. Wait...soft? Had he collapsed onto his own bed? It wasn't the first time he'd woken up with a hangover that made him feel like he'd been hit by a semi. And all of began with him waking up in puddle of piss, sweat and spilt whiskey. What the hell was going on? Had someone led him home? Whenever he tried to remember what had happened the night before, all he could remember was a pair of soft hands and a soothing voice. Huh? Someone had led him home then. Ugh. Well, that was humiliating. Especially after he'd just become Sheriff. Great, now he was getting fired for sure. Couldn't life just cut him some slack already?

He rolled over onto his back, throwing an arm over his face and preparing his body to stand up. He sucked in a strained breath, groaning bodily as he did so; he was pretty sure he was going to throw up a kidney or something. Unfortunately there was nothing in his stomach for his body to reject. Of course, the fact that he wasn't dry heaving in a puddle of pain and all around sickness made the chance of fatal alcohol poisoning rather low. So that was a plus. God, how could he have let himself get this low? What would Claudia think if she saw him now? What would his daughter think, his little Genium?

The Sheriff lurched to his feet and would've promptly collapsed right then and there, if it hadn't been for his rather unsullied reflexes. He managed to snag the corner of a nearby table and forced his legs not to buckle underneath his weight again. Before staggering out of his room and down the stairs, constantly using the wall for support. He really had to stop the drink-till-you-pass-out thing. But first things first, aspirin for his head and something substantial in his stomach. He could get both things from the kitchen, so that was where he ambled.

The first thing he realized was that the contents of his entire liquor stash had been thrown away in an overfilled trash can.

The second thing he realized was that there was a teenager sitting cross-legged on his kitchen counter, eating handfuls of Lucky Charms cereal.

Said teenager was dressed in clothes that looked like they'd seen better days. A red hoodie, a pair of dirty jeans, and nothing but mismatched socks on his feet. The teenager himself looked rather worse for wear as well. There were deep-set shadows around his eyes that made him look like a raccoon, and the entirety of his skin was a sickly pale color only made more shocking by the spiky dark hair on his head. But once he caught sight of John, he grinned widely and actually waved.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty! Or should I call you Passed-Out-Drunk Beauty?"

"Who are...?"

"Me? I'm the idiot who dragged you home and gave you a bubble-bath."

"I...I see. And you stayed for...reimbursement?"

The teen's brow furrowed and he paused in what seemed like confusion as he mouthed the word to himself. Then his eyes widened in something akin to horror. "You think I wanna get paid for getting all up and personal with your junk? What do I look like to you? A hooker?!" He sounded increasing offended and John, hungover as he was, was still quick to apologize.

"No! No! I just...why would you help me?"

"Well, you puked on my shoes and then pissed yourself. I felt kind of bad."

John groaned, something that had nothing to do with his hangover or pounding headache. But the teen just smiled knowingly and hopped off the counter to pass the Sheriff a steamy cup of coffee. Something the older man was nursing almost instantly. The teen was also drinking a cinnamon-smelling cup himself. When suddenly, John's blood ran cold.

"How...How did you know where I lived?"

Suddenly the boy didn't look so sick and frail looking. There was something in those eyes, something feral...almost animalistic. And the knowing smile on the teenager's lips turned from endearing to sinister. Something to be afraid of. He looked so alert, so wide-eyed...so **_hungry_**. There was something very very wrong about the teen in front of him. And it wasn't just the ratty clothes or the look in his eyes.

"I've been looking after you, John. But before you call the station and lock me up for being a stalker...just hear me out, okay?"

Against the better part of his judgement, Sheriff John Stilinski nodded.

" _Now...what do you know about vampires?_ "

 

 


	2. You Stayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John cares. 
> 
> Stiles does not compute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moje slońce -My Sun
> 
> Mój księżyc -My Moon 
> 
> Moja gwiazdeczka -My Little Star
> 
> All in Polish. Enjoy! :)

**_"...Was he born a murderer?" "That's not how it works with an upiór. You have to be the victim of an unnatural death."_ -The Storyteller, Jodi Picoult**

 

 

"So let me get this straight...you're a thousand-year-old vampire and my great-great-great-great cousin? And you're from Poland before it was even Poland?!"

"Well yes, but that's arguable. Because some historians believe 'Poland' was first created in 1025 when The Kingdom of Poland was founded. And that was a year before my death. And others believe it was only formally established in 1569 when it joined it's first political association with the Grand Duchy of Lithuania by it's official of power signing the Union of Lublin. And...you really don't care, do you? Sorry, when you've been alive for a thousand years, you hide out in a lot of libraries."

Szczepan Stilinski took another large sip of his coffee and absent-mindedly crossed his ankles from where he was lounging on top of the counter. John was grasping at his throbbing head and nursing his own coffee with a rather predictable scowl on his face. It was obvious to see that the physically older man was doing his damnedest to understand what had been placed right in front of him, all while majorly hungover. The Upior was actually surprised to a degree; a normal person would've running for the hills by now. Or at the very least, lost control of their bladder in the mad dash to get away from the monster leisurely drinking coffee in their kitchen. And he'd already seen enough to know that the Sheriff didn't exactly have the best handle on his bodily functions. The speckles of dried puke on the cuffs of his jeans could've told him that.

"So...uh, how can you sit so close to me then? Don't you want to suck my blood?"

"Okay, first of all, you didn't even try to say that with a Transylvanian accent. I mean come on Sheriff, at least try. And second of all, wrong kind of vampire. I don't suck anything. Well...that's a lie. But I don't suck blood! I don't have fangs. I have several rows of razor-sharp teeth and a two-foot long barbed tongue instead. I use my blade-like teeth to rip into the body and my tongue to lap up the blood. In the wise words of Dracula, ' _Dracula scrape with his fangs and lick up the blood. See, like this...Scrape and lick._ '"

John just stared at him blankly.

"Really? _The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy?_...Nothing?"

"I think I need to sit down...."

Szczepan just sighed as he hopped off the counter again and grabbed Sheriff roughly by his elbow, dragging the older man into the living room and forcibly sitting him on the couch. Well, the small portion of the couch that wasn't covered by newspapers and empty bottles of alcohol. Before grabbing a waste basket and shoving it into John's hands as an afterthought. A really worthy afterthought.

"You stayed."

"Huh?"

"You could've helped me and then left, you didn't have to explain any of this to me. But you did and you stayed. Why did you stay? I know I'm your descendent and everything...but that's not it. There's something else. What is it?"

The Sheriff was scowling into the waste basket in his lap. Not sparing a single glance for the undead boy beside him. It was why John didn't see the look of surprise that flitted across the Upior's face or the sudden jolt of pain that flashed in the teenager's eyes when he thought of the answer. The real answer. The one that involved Darija and Janek. They were the huge hole he'd left in the story he told John. He just couldn't bring himself to talk about them. To talk about the darkest time in his eternity. The monster sighed and slumped down beside John, not at all surprised when the man in question flinched away slightly. He would've done so as well, had the situation been reversed.

"John..."

"No, Szczepan..." The Sheriff grimaced as the unfamiliar letters passed his lips. "don't 'John' me. I want to know, that's why I asked. And please for the love of God, do you have a nickname or something?" The Upior just laughed and shook his head. A nickname? Back when he was a child, such things hadn't been needed. He went to work at twelve, he met Darija at fifteen and they were married by sixteen. All that time, he was just Szczepan. Well...Darija had called him ' _Moje slońce_ '. But he wasn't about to tell that to John. That name had died with Darija. Just like his name for her, ' _Mój księżyc_ '. And the name he'd called Janek when his little boy been alive inside Darija, ' _Moja gwiazdeczka_ '. The Sun, The Moon and their Little Star.

"No. I don't have a nickname. Back when I was young, we didn't have need of such things."

"Stiles."

Szczepan just stared at the older man in confusion. What in the hell was a ' _Stiles_ '? It sounded some kind of venereal disease, and a gruesome one at that. One with gross and oozing...nope, not going to go there.

"What the hell is a _Stiles_?"

"It's the nickname my friends gave me in college. Does that sound okay? Because really... your name is...well..."

"Stiles is fine. It's better than having to listen to you butcher the pronunciation of Szczepan again."

The Upior...Stiles, grinned impishly and brushed off the small smile that came from John. Then he turned to the physically older man in astonishment, the monster could sense the pulse that bulged in the Sheriff's jugular from across the room. It's constant beat was monotonous and Stiles had grown to be assured by it's continued presence. But he had realized, after sitting next to the man for several minutes, that the beat hadn't changed. It hadn't gotten faster or stronger when the Upior moved closer. He inched nearer to the man on the couch, but the beat still stayed constant. It was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. Stiles was a creature that could be across the room in a single instant. He could rip out John's throat without a second's thought. Drain him dry in mere moments. And John knew! He knew just how dangerous Stiles was...but still, despite all that...John wasn't afraid. And that terrified the monster to no end. Yet before he could say something, the Sheriff was speaking again, with new and unabashed courage in his voice.

"So Stiles, are you going to give me an answer or what? Why did you stay?"

"Werewolves. This town is covered in the scent of werewolves."

John's expression instantly went from stubbornly strong, to dismayed. As if to say, _'Are you fucking kidding me?!_ ' Though Stiles did have to give him credit, he was already taking the supernatural-creatures-are-real thing better than most people.

"No. No. No. That's impossible. I would know. I would know if I was living in a town full of werewolves...I would know if they existed!"

"Uh...not to burst your bubble Johnny-Boy, but you didn't know I existed until you woke up about an hour ago."

"Oh my God...Oh my fucking God. How can this be happening?"

John slumped forwards limply so that his face was hanging halfway into the wastebasket, and Stiles just awkwardly patted him on his back, in a way he hoped was reassuring. But probably wasn't, the way things seemed to be going for him. With his free hand the monster rubbed at his eyes tiredly and sighed. Hanging around humans was more exhausting than he remembered and this was just one. Ugh.

"Your eyes...Did you sleep at all last night?"

"What?"

"Stiles. Did. You. Sleep. Last. Night?"

John's head was still in the wastebasket, but the tone of his voice broached no argument. And Stiles just rolled his eyes. First of all, he didn't feel like slaughtering more than one vagrant a week and wasn't about to go kill someone for a nap. Second of all, he was a thousand year old ancient vampire...he did not need a human guy worrying about his sleeping schedule. Honestly. He wasn't a child!

"John, I'm a thousand year old vampire, my very being is the epitome of raw power! I don't need sleep."

"Even raw power needs a nap now and then...Take those."

John pointed at the cluttered table in the middle of the living room. A set of keys was strewn on the table next to a vase that hadn't been dusted in the last century. Nothing should ever have that many layers of dust on it. Gross. The key ring itself looked a little worse for wear too, practically overfilling with enough brass keys to evenly fill several others. But one stood out, it was bright pink and emblazoned with a capital 'G' made of tiny purple rhinestones.

"The pink one...it's the key to Gen's room. It's the only other room except for mine. You can sleep in there."

"John, really that's not necessary. Really. I'm fine."

"Go. Sleep. Now. I think I'm going to take a nap as well to try and get rid of this headache... oh and to come to grips with the fact that supernatural creatures are real. Yeah...nap sounds good."

Stiles sighed, snatching up the keys and striding towards the stairs as he went. Genium's old room wasn't hard to find, the door being a faded pink color kind of gave it a way. The Upior slowly slid the key into the lock and clicked it open. Stepping inside the room that had been closed for so many years. There were origami butterflies hanging from the ceiling in several different colors. Things far more delicate than anything Stiles could ever hope to make with his own hands. It looked like any other little girl's room with a white dresser in the corner, covered in bright floral stencils and white horses dancing across the wallpaper. The night table was still covered in drawings done in crayola markers, stick people and crudely drawn houses decorated the pages. He was a monster, standing in the room of a dead child. Nothing creepier than that.

The Upior sat gingerly on the iron canopy bed and curled up on the bubblegum pink sheets. Nothing like a bright pink princess canopy to make you feel manly. There was no way he was going to fall sleep while not drenched in blood, but he might as well try and rest his eyes. Just lie there with his eyes closed and pretend to be sleep. Great. Wonderful. God... trying to fall asleep in a dead child's bed? Not his best move. Obviously. But he didn't want John to be mad at him. ...What was wrong with him?! Why did he give a rat's ass what John Stilinski thought about him!?

_Because you care about him. You want a family._

He pretended the conscience in his head didn't sound like Darija.

 

- **X** _-_

 

Almost a week after Stiles inadvertently moved in with John Stilinski, the urge to feed overcame him once again.

He slipped out, just moments after John fell asleep. The monster couldn't bear to stay in the same house with the human any longer. Not when he could feel the blood that pulsed throughout John's body as if it were something to be devoured, instead of being the thing that kept the Sheriff alive. He needed to feed. That was the only way he'd be able to control himself around the physically older man. To avoid killing John, he had to slaughter an innocent. What was right about that?

The old man was walking in the dark. A vagrant. Pushing a steel cart, stolen from a nearby supermarket. Filled with spoiled food, plastic shopping bags, things that were needed but that nobody missed. He never saw it coming. The lanky boy that came from the shadows, the mouth of shark-like teeth that ripped into his flesh like butter. He didn't even have time to scream before the monster was on top of him. Tearing him apart. The barbed prehensile tongue slipped from the creature's mouth like a shadow, lapping up the spilt blood like a cat. The poor old man was lying brokenly on the dirty floor of a sideways alley. His skin was hanging in ribbons, his chest a mishmash of flesh and blood. But the amount of blood was rapidly dwindling as the monster preformed it's wretched act. Once all the blood was drained and the body was lying destroyed and mangled on the ground, the monster stood up. Shaking and drenched in blood as his eyes turned from crimson red to their normal shade, his teeth changed from knives to blunt instruments and his tongue turned soft and pink.

Suddenly he was just a pale seventeen year old boy, dripping with the lifeblood of the old man lying on the floor.

The monster slunk back into the darkness and ran back to the Stilinski residence, his body once again rejuvenated with the blood of the vagrant man. The thought of the stolen blood within his stomach made him sick. You're nothing but a monster. He wasn't surprised to find the house dark and still. It was night after all. He silently scaled the side of the house and crept inside from the large window in Genium's old room. The very last thing he expected was for John to be sitting on the bubblegum pink comforter, alert and waiting for Stiles to arrive.

"John...I..."

"Are you alright?"

John was off the bed in an instant, looking Stiles up and down as if he was hurt. As if it was his blood covering his clothes instead of that old man's. It made the Upior feel impossibly sick. "Please, don't look at me like that..." The monster whispered brokenly, looking anywhere except at the Sheriff before him. But the physically older man wasn't going to stand for it.

"You can't just disappear on me, Stiles. If you have to feed, tell me. We can figure this out."

The monster wanted to cry. But monsters don't cry.

"I was worried, Stiles."

The Sheriff softly reached up and ruffled the ancient vampire's hair, ignoring the congealed blood globs that were stuck on the strands. And Stiles bit his bottom lip. Why did he care? How could John care this much for a monster? A monster he'd only known for about a week.

_Because he's like you. He needs this._

Now Darija's voice in his head was just plain annoying.

 

 


	3. Domestication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles still doesn't compute. 
> 
> It's kind of a problem...
> 
> He needs help.

**_"It wasn't a wild animal...It was you." "Wild animal...upiór. Why split hairs?"_ ** **-The Storyteller, Jodi Picoult**

 

 

Stiles hummed contentedly, as the steamy water from the shower head poured down all over his body.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a shower with such hot water. It was glorious. The Upior almost moaned with the pure ecstasy of it all. Allowing his ever-sharp senses to dull and the luxurious heat to soak into his pale skin. He had no idea how long he stayed in there, but it had to have been at least thirty minutes, before the water turned cold and Stiles' eyes widened. His legs buckled underneath him in shock and he was falling... _falling... falling... The wind whipping his hair, his arms waving uselessly. He was floating, weightless. He didn't scream. He never screamed; he couldn't. The wind had stolen his breathe away. He wanted this. He had chosen this. He wanted to die. The teenager flipped and twirled in the air, a broken doll in a child's hands. Until he hit the rocks that is...Then there was an ominous and resounding crack from somewhere within him, before he fell helplessly into the frothy water below. He only learned later, that the terrible cracking sound had likely been his spine._

_He sunk into the depths of the freezing black water like a stone. With no power left to fight the currents that quickly dragged him under. His broken body was thrown too and fro under the waves, shattering what hadn't already been broken by the rocks. His mouth was clamped shut, the only part of his body still under a semblance of his control, even as the only air still in his lungs, completely deserted his body. He was drowning. Dying. Perhaps he was already dead._

_The coldness of the water numbed his deadened limbs even further. His eyes were at half-mast, even though he saw nothing. Now he was just a body, helplessly spinning into the blackness. He thought of his Darija. Her sweet laugh filled his ears, even as they flooded with water. He had loved her. More than just her beauty. He had loved her very being. Now she was swept away, just the violent currents that carried his lifeless husk of a body. They could've grown old together, living in the little cottage he'd built for her on the outskirts of the village. She had loved it so. With his last moments of consciousness, he dreamed that she was right there with him. That he was wrapped in her embrace. He was content to die in her arms._

_But suddenly there was something pulling him away from his beloved, hands that yanked him away and pulled him out of the darkness._

_Into the light._

Stiles was panting, his mouth opened wide as he clung to the side of the shower. His hands slick with water and his eyes blown wide with panic. The cold water ran in icy rivulets down his face and he was shivering. It took him a few moments to realize that it wasn't from the cold. Just like all the wetness on his face wasn't just from the water. He was crying. A crying monster. And it wasn't quiet crying either, the breaking one does while silent, no...he was wetly gasping for air as he sobbed. Great, heaving sobs that shook his entire body like he was lost in the strong currents again. He was cracked, broken open, raw and bloody. Wishing, as he had for so many years, that he'd never climbed out of his own grave.

With shaking, bone-white hands, he turned off the water and stood up on his shaky legs, using the wall for balance as he hesitantly stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a nearby towel around his lanky frame and half-heartedly scrubbing at his hair to dry it. When his visual clarity returned to him full force, he was able to see the new plaid shirt, jeans and boxers sitting on the toilet seat. Folded neatly and waiting for him. His familiar red hoodie and dirty jeans were gone from where he'd left them, crumpled in a heap on the floor. A soft smile graced the monster's lips as he put on the new boxers and jeans, saving the shirt for last. Once he'd buttoned it up, he turned to look at himself in the mirror.

A harmless-looking boy stared back at him.

Lanky in a way that only teenagers could be, his skin tone was on the pale side, the shadows under his eyes looked like he'd been up the night before, probably online gaming. But he looked pleasant and normal enough. It was only his eyes that betrayed his age, they looked eons older than his form. Those were eyes that had seen death, and far too much of life.

"Hey Stiles! Are you done yet? We need to talk."

"Coming John!"

Stiles rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, plastering a rather fake smile to his lips as he headed out of the bathroom. He'd been with John for a month and it felt like he'd been there forever. A thought that made a cold chill run up his spine. There was still the large part of his brain that advised him not to get too close. But he just did what he'd been doing consistently for a month, he ignored it.

They came up with the cover-story that Stiles was the Sheriff's son, Genium's younger brother, who had been at a boarding school overseas for several years. Which was why he wasn't involved in the car accident that killed Claudia and Genium. Honestly though? Stiles thought the story was ludicrous and too farfetched for anyone to actually believe, but they needed a cover-story badly, so the boarding school one would have to do. Within a week or so of Stiles staying with the Sheriff, the town's rumor-mill had already started up again. There were outlandish theories circulating everywhere. Some of them thought Stiles was a foster kid/orphan that the Sheriff was adopting from Europe, others thought he was the Sheriff's new 'boy toy'. Okay...ewwww. So yeah, boarding school story, actually not so bad.

Stiles hurried down the stairs, hints of his true speed clearly showing through, when he managed to get there within mere moments. Only to be stopped in the hallway by a guilty-looking John. He knew that look. He'd only been with the guy for a month, but he knew that look better than he knew the back of his own hand. Before he could open his mouth to ask about said look, a thick glossy pamphlet was being pushed into his hands.

' _An Introduction to Beacon Hills High-Schoo_ l'

.....

Jesus Fucking Christ.

 

- **X** -

 

"John, this is a terrible idea."

"I know it's not ideal...but people at the station have been asking why my teenage 'son' isn't in school. I've been holding them off for a while, but I can't do it forever."

"...Who said anything about me staying 'forever'?"

John recoiled from Stiles' words as if he'd been slapped. Hurt flashed in his eyes for half a second before it was gone and replaced with an instinctive mask of anger. "Well nobody, but I just assumed..." The Sheriff's voice was filled with broken glass, a virtual minefield. Had Stiles been more aware of what he was edging into, he would've been more tentative. Instead, he stumbled into it like a bull in a china shop. His own unexplainable anger boiled within him, and he said words he didn't mean. Because 'feelings' are fickle things, almost like temperatures in a reflective way. Hate burns. Sadness freezes. Attraction flickers with veins of heat and ice. While curiosity, love...those things are a soothing lukewarm.

"I'm not an pet, John. You can't just give me a bed, new clothes and send me off to school with my little red wagon. I'm never going to be like the other students. I'm not a human boy... I'm a monster. You can't just domesticate me."

The Upior never raised his voice, he didn't have too. His voice was sharp, terse, blundering through John's wall of broken glass like an oblivious fool. John clenched his teeth and anger burned unheeded in his eyes. "Well I'm sorry for trying to care about you!"

"I never asked you too! I'm just a monster, John! Find a charity case that won't come back to bite you in the ass!"

"What is it with you and calling yourself a monster?! Do you really have that low an opinion of yourself?! Did those thousand years by yourself fuck you up in the head? Or have you always been so messed up?"

Okay, that was hitting below the belt. He knew he had issues. But only cowards bring up painful things like that during a fight...Fine! You know what, fucking fine! If John wanted to fight dirty, then Stiles could do it too. He wasn't the only one with a boat-load of fucking issues! He wasn't thinking straight, he just wanted to hurt the physically older man. And there was only one way he could see to do that.

"Fuck you, asshole! Maybe I have! At least I'm not the sad old drunk who'll do anything to replace the kid he lost!"

Instantly John's face turned as white as chalk. His eyes and mouth were frozen wide open in an expression of stunned disbelief, and although he was staring straight at Stiles, he appeared not to notice him at all. Slowly but surely, the anger faded from his eyes and was replaced by a sickening motley of shock, disgust and pain. Stiles' anger faded along with John's and was replaced by regret and guilt. Shit. No. No. No. He didn't mean too! Goddammit! Stiles blinked silently at the Sheriff, as John just stared at a point in the distance. Before the Upior finally proceeded to do what he did best.

He ran.

 

- **X** -

 

John found his idiot about three hours later, sitting soaked-to-the-bone in a drainage ditch.

The Upior had curled up with his face in his knees as it poured cats and dogs outside. The so-called ' _monster_ ', looked like a hurt little puppy who'd been kicked one too many times. While he was sitting there having his little pity-fest, John had spent the last two hours and forty-five minutes, driving all around Beacon Hills in the cruiser, trying his best to find him. The Sheriff knew, somehow, that the physically younger man hadn't left. Had he wanted to leave, he would've done so weeks ago. No, Stiles wouldn't have left...but he would have found the most pitiful and most uncomfortable place to be. Like a drainage ditch...when it was pouring outside. Which was only further testament to the kid's complete lack of self-esteem whatsoever. Sure, they'd had a fight. But that was perfectly normal. They'd both said things they regretted. John already knew how sorry the kid was and was entirely fine with forgiving him after the first fifteen minutes, if he could've found the damn boy! Now he was wet, tired and so worried that he was pissed.

So the Sheriff did the only plausible thing in such a situation. He marched through the pouring rain, dropped his now soaked coat over the Upior's shoulders and picked up his idiot.

The boy's eyes widened like saucers and he struggled half-heartedly for a moment, before leaning into John's chest and letting the physically older man carry him back to the waiting cruiser. He felt like a runaway infant as the Sheriff gently settled him in the passenger seat and turned the heat on high. They sat in silence for several moments, before Stiles just couldn't contain it anymore.

"Sheriff, I'm so so sorry! I didn't mean to talk to you like that. _I understand how much it hurts to lose the people you love_ and I was completely insensitive and I'm sorry! I'll go to the stupid school and if you want me to be your surrogate son, _then that's okay too_. As long as you _forgive me because I don't_ understand why I need you around me so much, but I do. I really do and it would be very beneficial for you to forgive me now... _because...because_ , I just don't know what to do anymore and you just make things feel right you know... _and I'm sorry, sorry, sorry and_..."

Stiles was so worked up, that he didn't realize it when he slipped out of English and into the archaic Polish of his birth and then back again. But he did stop his word-vomit when he felt John pulling him into his arms. He could hear the Sheriff's pulse whooshing in his ears, feel the sound of the physically older man's heart beating. But it didn't make him feel hungry in the slightest, in fact the bloodlust seemed to diminish ten-fold.

"It's okay, Stiles. It's alright."

"I'm not a child, John. I'm a monster."

He insisted, in a voice that sounded used and thin and strained even to his own ears. But John didn't pull away, didn't stop his ministrations.

"You're not. But it's okay. You're going to be okay."

The Upior just smirked softly into John's shoulder, feeling a sick and morbid laugh bubble up within his chest. ' _Okay_ '? Ha!

He hadn't been anything close to ' _okay_ ' in a very long time.

 

 


End file.
